Page 68 of Marrying My Professor

His jaw clenches, the first sign of actual emotion breaking through his control, a muscle jumping near his ear. "I wasn't hiding it from you. I was waiting for the right time to⁠—"

"The right time?" My voice rises another octave, cracking on the words. "When exactly would have been the right time, Alexander? Before you fucked me in that club? Before you married me? Before you bound yourself to the Veritas forever? Or were you just planning to keep this secret indefinitely while I stumbled around in the dark?"

"I was planning to tell you when I had more information!" His voice rises to match mine, frustration finally bleeding through that professional composure. "When I could give you something useful instead of just confirming what you already suspected. When I could offer you a path to justice instead of just more questions."

"I don't need you to protect me from information about my own brother!"

"I'm not protecting you from information—I'm protecting you from the Veritas!" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable, more human. "Do you have any idea what they would do if they knew you were actively investigating Brandon's death? If they knew you were collecting evidence against James?"

"I don't care what they would do!" I'm shouting now, past the point of controlling my volume or my tone or anything except the rage pouring out of me. "Brandon was my brother. He was all I had left, and they killed him, and you⁠—"

My voice breaks. Cracks right down the middle like everything else in my life.

"You've had answers this whole time and you kept them from me," I finish, quieter now, more devastating in its softness than any scream. "You let me think we were in this together. Let me believe you were helping me find the truth. When really you've known exactly what happened from the beginning."

I look down at the scattered papers, at Brandon's name repeated across multiple pages, at the clinical documentation of his hopes and his death.

And then something else catches my eye.

A second folder, partially visible beneath the scattered pages. Different color, different label.

Ashen Serpents - Internal Records.

My hand trembles as I reach for it, pulling it free from beneath Brandon's file. This one is older, the edges worn, the label faded like it's been filed and refiled countless times.

I flip it open.

The first page is similar to Brandon's initiation roster—names, ages, status. But this list is different. These aren't initiates. These are members. Full members of the Ashen Serpents, documented with dates of induction and current standing.

I scan down the list, my eyes catching on names I recognize from campus, from the Spring Ball, from overheard conversations in hallways.

And then I see it.

Drexel, Atticus - Age 17 at induction - Status: Forced Conscription - Current Assignment: Belgrave University (10-year sentence, extended to indefinite) - Known Alias: Alexander Draven

The words don't make sense at first. My brain tries to process them, tries to reconcile what I'm reading with what I know, with what Alexander has told me.

Forced Conscription.

Not recruited. Not chosen. Forced.

"What is this?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper now, holding up the page so he can see it. "What does 'forced conscription' mean?"

Alexander's face goes carefully blank, that professional mask slamming down so fast I almost miss the flash of pain that precedes it. "It means exactly what it sounds like."

"You said you joined when you were young. You said—" I stop, replaying every conversation we've had about his past, about the Veritas, about how he ended up here. "You made it sound like you had a choice."

"I didn't." He says it flatly, matter-of-fact, like he's reading from a script. "I was seventeen. I found something I wasn't supposed to find—evidence of a Serpent secret. And they gave me an option: join or die. I chose to live."

The information lands like puzzle pieces I didn't know I was missing, clicking into place with sickening clarity.

"So you've been a prisoner this entire time," I say slowly. "Since you were seventeen years old. Since before you could legally vote or drink or sign a contract without parental consent. They've owned you."

"Yes."

"And when you tried to leave eight years ago⁠—"

"They found me. Dragged me back. Extended my sentence to ten years." His voice is eerily calm, detached, like he's discussing someone else's tragedy. "Gave me a new name and a teaching position and told me I'd serve until they decided I'd paid my debt. Which, spoiler alert, was never going to happen."